


Sworn To The Cause

by SpangleBangle



Series: Thominho Week 2015 [5]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Archer Alby, Bathing/Washing, Battles with Grievers, Day 5 - Fantasy & Magic, Established Relationship, Fighting, High Fantasy, Knight Minho, M/M, Magic-Users, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pyromancer Thomas, RPG elements, Thominho Week, Thominho Week 2015, Violence, Warlock Newt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpangleBangle/pseuds/SpangleBangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My fill for Day 5 (Fantasy & Magic) of Thominho Week 2015. Honestly my favourite day of the event, I love fantasy so much it's the vast majority of what I read and write. As with the others, I really want to develop this further in the future. </p>
<p>The archer reached down a hand and pulled the warlock up behind him in the saddle with the ease of long practice. Minho turned to Thomas, who was most definitely passed out now, fingertips dripping flame like blood to scorch the grass as he lay over the horse’s neck again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sworn To The Cause

“Watch out!” Minho yelled as the creature released a great gout of black oil from its maw.

“What d’you think I’m doing?” Thomas shouted back, wheeling his horse back with a sharp tug of his reins, making the poor animal whinny in protest. “Just get me a clear shot!”

Minho clapped down the visor of his helmet and held his saber ready, reins in one hand. With a yell he kicked his heels into his mount’s sides and the fine creature sprang into a charge, screaming out a challenge as loud as the monster’s own calls of destruction. Minho joined in with his own battle cry, rising up in his seat and holding his sabre high as he neared the disgusting thing thrashing through the farmstead.

“I’m gonna break your face!” He shouted, drawing the horrible thing’s attention to him. He leaned over his horse’s side as they charged forward, yelling the whole time, until he came in range and slashed down with his sabre, cutting slickly down the slug-like creature’s side, parting its flesh with sickening ease. Ichor and slime spurted river-like from the wound and it screeched, a nightmarish sound like rusty iron against stone, full of rage and pain.

Minho quickly righted his seat and steered his horse away in an abrupt line, trying to get as much distance as possible. And just in time, as he felt a wash of near-unbearable heat at his back, like his armour were melting into his skin. He glanced back as he brought his horse around and grinned behind his visor, seeing Thomas doing his stupid show-offy trick of standing fully upright on his horse’s back, jets of orange flame tinged white in the centre flowing from his outstretched palms, a snarl of concentration on his face. Even from this distance, Minho saw the red glow of his eyes as his comrade drew from beyond the Veil, transforming raw eldritch power to fire under his command.

The thing thrashed and threw itself vainly from side to side, trying to escape the lashes of fire that scorched its flesh and set fire to its oily secretions. Minho would feel pity if it weren’t for the trail of destruction it had left through the countryside, a very easy trail of death and gore to follow.

The pulses of flame slowed until there was nothing more than dribbles of light spilling from Thomas’ red-raw palms. Minho watched him carefully as the man lowered himself back into the saddle. Minho raised his visor again and let out an ear-splitting whistle. Thomas slumped over his horse’s neck as it cantered obediently to Minho, who caught the reins. He could hear Thomas breathing raggedly, though he was close to unconsciousness. He brought them to a safe distance and let out another whistle, this one ululating and howl-like.

A few seconds later he saw another of their party leap out from a stand of rocks nearby and dash fearlessly up to the violently writhing and shrieking monster. The young man skidded to his knees, threw off the cloak covering his bare chest and shoved both hands unflinchingly into the boiling blood and oil streaming from the thing’s wound, then smeared the tar-like goo over his hands and bare chest in ritualistic symbols. The flames still dancing on the liquid’s surface didn’t seem to bother him.

The eyeless slug with far too many teeth and spikes seemed to sense him nearby and turned to him, desperate to vent its incensed agony on something animate. Minho drew breath to shout a warning, but the last member of their team was already there, circling his horse to the other side, bow at the ready. Minho made sure Thomas was still breathing then watched as the archer wheeled about, standing high in his stirrups and shooting rapidly at the thing, his bespelled arrows sinking deep into its flesh with tortured wails, releasing more gouts of ooze from each entry point. It was about to charge this new annoyance when the young man painting himself in blood gained his feet and began to chant, his voice carrying in impossible ripples and booms, almost singing out the phrases that made the horses squeal and buck and set Minho’s head ringing tinnily inside his helmet. Black spots appeared in his vision and he ground his teeth – even Thomas stirred to cry out in pain, his eyes flaring red and palms catching flame again in sympathy as the warlock called on the Veil.

The warlock raised his arms, the blood on his skin flaring an uncanny red the same as Thomas’ eyes, too bright for anything except oilpaint, the symbols there seemingly burning through the world they could see. The creature screamed again, this time in fear, and its now-shining-crimson hide began to twist and pulse in horrific, stomach-turning movements. The warlock’s voice rose in command, booming over the fields and devastated farms around them. Thomas howled mindlessly, crimson light spilling from under his tightly-closed eyes and Minho grabbed him in case he started convulsing like last time. The horses screamed like slaughtered pigs, no amount of experience able to prepare them for this each mission, bucking under their riders in terror. Just when Minho thought he could take it no more, there was an almighty bellow and the creature _warped_ like wet clay, folding in on itself into a swirling black mass that pressed between the planes of reality as the warlock commanded, until with a final shudder, it was no more. Sent back beyond the Veil.

Echoing silence settled over them, broken only by Thomas’ whimpers of pain and the heavy breathing of their horses. Minho watched as the warlock swayed where he stood and the archer trotted up to him. The archer reached down a hand and pulled the warlock up behind him in the saddle with the ease of long practice. Minho turned to Thomas, who was most definitely passed out now, fingertips dripping flame like blood to scorch the grass as he lay over the horse’s neck again. His mount rolled its eyes at the smell of smoke, but had been Thomas’ steed for long enough not to bolt despite the stress all the animals were under from the fight. Minho took off his helmet and shook the sweat from his hair as he dismounted. He took a few minutes to calm and soothe both his and Thomas’ horses while the archer and warlock rode over at a slow walk. He knew Thomas would be alright – this was hardly their first time. But just to be safe, he tipped some of his waterskin over Thomas’ palms, dousing the flames for good. Then he splashed some water over Thomas’ face, not to wake him but to help him cool down. He’d be running hot for some hours yet.

The other riders neared and dismounted, the archer helping the warlock down when he stumbled.

“Pretty good show there,” the archer remarked, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the burned tarry blood on the warlock’s chest and arms.

“Shut up, Alby,” the warlock wheezed with a grin, eyes wild and still tinged with crimson.

Minho threw water at his face as well until the red washed away and he regained himself fully. “Thanks,” he mumbled when he was lucid again. “How’s Tommy?”

“Out cold,” Minho replied. “Well, burnin’ up really, but that’s normal. Did you have to go so far that time, Newt? He was glowin’ and burnin’ all over the place.”

“It was a strong one,” Newt replied, leaning heavily on Alby’s shoulder. “Almost too strong for me. I’ll apologise to him later, but it had to be that much power or we’d still be fightin’ that thing.”

“And it wasn’t paralysed by my shots, either. They’re gettin’ nastier,” Alby remarked quietly. “We have to report this.”

Minho nodded and sighed. “Right, let’s head back then. Thomas needs a cold bath, anyway. Good job, everyone. And Newt, put on a shirt. You’ll scare the townsfolk.”

Newt rifled through the packs on Alby’s horse to do so, and Minho removed Thomas’ outer layers and tied him over the arch of his saddle in readiness for riding back home. They set off at a relaxed trot, Newt mounted behind Alby, who had the only horse that would tolerate the distinct aura of the Veil that surrounded their warlock. Minho led Thomas’ horse on a long rein, watching him carefully.

An hour or so later and they were trooping exhaustedly through the town barracks. Minho and Alby, even without drawing on otherworldly abilities, were bone-tired from riding, the effort of the fight, and looking after their counterparts. Grooms had taken their horses away, others had brought his armour and their packs up to their designated rooms. With a groan, Minho hefted Thomas’ unconscious body over his shoulders and hauled him through to the wash rooms; Alby left to make their report to the Captain, and Newt went to a separate wash area where the Veiling’s blood wouldn’t contaminate anything when washed off.

Minho found a mostly-empty bath and stripped himself and Thomas down, stowing their clothes to the side. Moving carefully, he lowered Thomas into the water and made sure he wouldn’t breathe any in. He washed himself briskly in the cold water with lye soap, wrapped a length of cloth around his hips, and attended to his friend.

With gentle hands, he scooped cold water over his fever-hot skin, holding his head above the water and lightly stroking his cheek. He washed the sweat and scalding heat from Thomas’ skin with care, counting each familiar scar and burn mark on his body like old friends.

“You’ve gotta stop exhausting yourself like this,” Minho muttered to him with a smile. He lifted Thomas’ scorched hands out of the water and started rubbing some ointment into them, spelled to help heal the blistered skin. After some time in the cold water, Thomas woke enough to curl his fingers around Minho’s. He seemed much cooler now. Minho kissed the top of his head and hauled him out of the water, dressed him, and carried him up to their room.

He lay down with Thomas on the bed and stroked gently over his chest as Thomas faded blearily in and out of consciousness, dozing some himself. Later, Alby brought them some food which Minho ate immediately, and fed Thomas’ to him when he woke much later.

“Thank you,” Thomas mumbled, strong enough to sit up but too weak to hold his spoon.

Minho fed him the last spoonful, then kissed his cheek. “You don’t need to thank me. You know I’ll always take care of you. That was some pretty impressive casting today, by the way.”

Thomas smiled tiredly and pressed a vague kiss to Minho’s lips. “The Veil was thin today. But thank you. I liked your battle cry.”

“We did good,” Minho sighed, and put the bowl to the side. “Let’s sleep for a bit.”

“Yes please,” Thomas agreed, and lay down with him. They curled around each other, happy to forget their duty and too tired to talk further. Thomas still felt too warm, but at least he wasn’t burning to the touch. And he was awake enough to adorn Minho’s skin with tiny kisses, speaking his affection and fondness without the need of language. They’d been doing this a long time, they knew what each other needed. Minho held him close and stroked through Thomas’ hair, content in the knowledge no one would bother them until the next day. Quiet surrounded them like comforting blankets, wrapped up in each other. They traded weary kisses and fond touches until the realms of sleep claimed them.


End file.
